Mute the World
by ImaginaryFlower
Summary: The world is split between those who have abilities and those who do not. Sherlock is what they call an alternative, someone who struggled for years to suppress and essentially rid themselves of their abilities. Suddenly, all this talk of abilities comes into play when Sherlock meets the seemingly normal John Watson. Slight Johnlock, though not exactly.


**Mute the World**

**The world is split between those who have abilities and those who do not. Sherlock is what they call an alternative, someone who struggled for years to suppress and essentially rid themselves of their abilities. Suddenly, all this talk of abilities comes into play when Sherlock meets the seemingly normal John Watson.**

**Pairing: Slight John/Sherlock**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Supernatural, angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, romance**

**Characters: Sherlock H., John W. **

**Oh, God. This is my first Sherlock fanfiction and I simply want to crawl under a rock and die. Apologies for the language; I am an American who feels quite silly trying to copy the way people in other countries speak.**

**Anyway, I hope someone (anyone?) enjoys this. I don't actually think this is a very good story but, hey, gold star: I tried.**

***runs and hides under bed***

/

The beauty behind the most simple of things can be a saving grace. While some things may appear complex as opposed to simple, the truth is that other things are best seen when you take a step back and examine exactly what is presented to you. Distance from the situation allows the mind to relax a bit, disconnect from guilt or shame or concern or any other emotion clouding the eyes of the onlooker. Sometimes something as simple as an observation may send someone spiraling into a revelation; no matter how simple it was before, it seemed complex, incomplete, an anomaly buried deep in the heart of confusion. Being able to distance yourself, to go unfeeling, could help far more than any other act.

But we're forgetting where we started. The beauty of simple things, the saving grace about them that some just can't recognize. The possibility that you can be saved, even when you previously thought such an idea impossible. But that is where you are wrong. The impossible is only impossible to those who refuse to believe in its possibility. Once we take away that doubt and the spark that allowed it to cultivate, imagine what the human mind could accomplish. If we were to simply ignore the side of ourselves that whispers self-loathing and poison, is it possible our shortcomings would not, in the end, exist? This is assuming they had ever existed at all.

That is true beauty. Though it takes far more than a genius to see it. It takes a philosopher, an able-minded man or woman. It takes the most ordinary man of them all to realize that all shortcomings we create can easily be reduced to our own obstacles to overcome.

And that is where we begin.

/

An invisible line ran through the population of Earth. Some could acknowledge it and some couldn't. To someone like Sherlock Holmes, who had been on both sides of that line, it was fairly obvious it existed. The governments would try to deny it. The people both denied and held it to be true; it all depended on where their hearts and loyalties lay. But to Sherlock Holmes, the man least likely to rebel, the people were not equal. No matter which country you visited, it would be the same, yet also different to a degree. Where he had been born, those with supernatural abilities were the ones that held sway. More than seven-eighths of the British government was made up of those individuals who possessed the gifts no one quite understood, their classifications ranking from level five (a rank common enough among the average citizens) to level eleven (though the occasional twelve or thirteen could be found). These levels were never to be found in the common people. Few knew why, though many guessed the truth.

Why else would you be tested as a mere infant?

Of course, the dangers had to be eliminated before they had a chance to use their abilities even once, as anyone higher than a level eight could kill more people than a loose gunman easily, especially before they had managed to control said abilities. Only the rich, the important, the people with everything to lose yet everything to gain, could escape such an early fate. It's how Sherlock, himself a level nine psychic not long ago, lived passed infancy, a fact he exploits at every turn. He's never found what the deaths accomplish. Logically, nothing, though getting sentimental about it will do nothing about it, either.

So Sherlock goes about his own business, despite being "average" in the eyes of those annoying self-important people who stick to the old-school social hierarchy that legally died out in the early 1900s. Of course, no one ever said Sherlock himself had to follow such dull social norms. It had been heavily implied though not said directly, which was a good enough excuse in Sherlock's book. No doubt he'd someday get in a huge amount of trouble, legal or otherwise, but until then, Sherlock would continue to be Sherlock.

No one had done anything about it yet. Not until John Watson.

/

John was not special. He grew up normally enough, despite certain bumps in the road along the way. His sister, a psychic with little control of her life in general, was born not long after him, and became his playmate/antagonist during his early years of life. His mother and father, both level threes on the standard worldwide scale, raised him as well as they could despite having less-than-adequate jobs to raise children. Harry grew up with an intense feeling she had been cheated out of a wonderful childhood, while John was grateful for everything he had. Both developed different opinions about what it meant to be psychic. It was a shock to everyone when John, the optimist, saw it has a horrible impairment, while Harry waved around her talents like a blue ribbon won at school. Being a level six, she was allowed to do such things. John wasn't. Not that he would want to even if he could. John liked being normal; he strived for it, worked for it desperately.

The tween years turned to teen years. Teens turned to early twenties and John managed to grab hold of his true calling. John wanted to be a doctor.

His family, while pleased that he had such ambitions, were skeptical.

"It's not that I don't believe in you, John," his mother had said, "It's just… with our families social status… Oh, I don't know if you should get your hopes up."

"Think of it this way," had been his father's advice, "You're special, but not in the way society sees special. You've got to be more than smart. More than driven. You've got to have been born into the right place."

Harry had been the worst of all. John loved his sister, he really did, but God, was she difficult.

"Come on, Johnny. That's not really something someone like you can manage."

Well, he'd show them. He'd show every single person who thought being normal would set you back, simply because you were born that way. It had never been his original intention but now he had so many thoughts bursting inside him , so many ideals and possibilities that he couldn't not try.

And John became a doctor. Even if he had to join the army to pay for college tuition, he became a doctor and he showed everyone what a normal man could do.

But that wasn't the last they would hear of John Watson. Oh, no, out doctor's tale is far from over.

/

Suppose the two most opposite people in the world were to meet. Yet suddenly, they find themselves sharing more similarities than anyone would have guessed. And now they aren't so much different as they are similar. It's a simple enough process; simply by sharing the thought that you are completely different, that you share nothing similar with this other person, you have already become similar. A step closer to becoming the same and so much farther away from different than you realize.

Isn't it amazing what human recognition can create?

Of course, this was not the case with John and Sherlock. What others saw to be different, they saw to be very much the same. In many ways, it seems everyone was right and everyone was also wrong.

One thing different about them, however, was the conduct, followed by the information. Could John claim to know a man whose name came as an afterthought as he ducked out the door to the morgue?

Well, yes, he could, though it wouldn't be very true.

Of course, Sherlock Holmes would make sure he had a permanent place in John's mind. Little did Sherlock and John know, the mild doctor could make easily make sure he would never leave Sherlock's mind.

So John came to the flat when Sherlock instructed him to. Maybe he was insane; he didn't know. It was all a matter of perspective that John didn't have.

Sherlock was not an easy person to like, nor was John used to trailing a madman through London. Though, a week later, he found himself alive and perfectly happy. A series of mind games had been played through, ending with both alive yet shaken (in John's case. It was hard to tell with Sherlock) and John supposed that, yes, he could make his home here.

One does not live with the world's only consulting detective and most observant man without having their secrets picked apart.

/

The meeting of these two strange, oh so different souls was what you might expect. In the end, Sherlock whisked out the room briefly, before popping his head back in to say simply, "Sherlock Holmes, alternate. Lovely to meet you."

It wasn't what the good doctor was expecting, to say the least.

Alternates were rare. John had never met one before, which might be odd considering he was a doctor. But it wasn't exactly surprising. Alternates were people who, though they had been born with an ability or more, had gone through therapy and training to block said ability. So while they had been born with something special, they, for their own reasons, had decided against keeping their ability. There were some people who never got that option. They were labeled too dangerous and were either stripped of their abilities at a young age, killed, or contained in one of the few facilities capable of such a thing. Anyone above a level thirteen rarely saw their first birthday. If they did, no one would ever want to remember it. It hurt to remove such a huge part of yourself. For years after, you'd feel empty, almost useless, and sometimes it would ache endlessly. John had never felt this himself, thank God, though he had read medical journals about it in the past. The topic was intriguing, though not entirely ethic. Few alternates lived long lives. Sometimes the therapy didn't even work. More often than not, the people who had been through the first trials had died. Others went mad. To meet a functional alternate was a rarity not to be overlooked.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't completely functional the way we see it. Functional means different things to different people. To almost everyone, it means sane. Though to John, it meant happy. Sherlock did not seem all that happy. Content, yes, but not especially happy.

So John would be living with an alternate now. It would be interesting to see the life an alternate lead.

/

It was not interesting.

It was exciting, dangerous, insane, and all around stressful as hell. And John loved every minute of it. The thrill of the chase. The feeling of being completely alive. It was spellbinding, the way his life was now centered around Sherlock, even after such a short time. Mere weeks had passed and already John couldn't imagine anything better. Yes, Sherlock was infuriating at times. Yes, he tested John's patience daily with his eccentric quirks and ridiculous ability to insult someone no matter what. Oh, and the Goddamn experiments. John could live without finding another sample in the fridge for the rest of his life, though he had no such luck.

Nevertheless, Sherlock became his friend. His best friend. And their friendship was weird for someone like John, who didn't often get so close to people. He rarely touched people. Skin to skin contact was not really his thing. Sherlock liked to test that boundary, though more often than not he was too busy ignoring John to do just that. Which was better for both of them, in the end.

Cases were solved and the law breakers arrested. Lestrade became a contact on John's phone, quickly followed by Mycroft and Molly. It was such an odd twist of fate, John mused, though he was perfectly happy with it.

But along came Jim Moriarty. And oh, how the story was twisted.

/

Niether John nor Sherlock expected the scene at the pool. Seeing your best friend walking out with a bomb strapped onto them would frighten anyone. Yet Sherlock remained calm, to a degree.

And Moriarty was revealed. At long last, the insane villain that started it all stepped into the metaphorical spotlight, smile flashing in a show of teeth that would make the bravest heart freeze. And certainly, John was frozen. He felt the cloth of his ever-present gloves on his hands rub uncomfortably against his skin, making him itch uncomfortably. He hated it. He felt so utterly powerless as Sherlock made conversation with the insane man before them.

We all know how that ended. And john wished, imagined how it couldn't gone differently. How, if he only acted a bit quicker, he could have ended it right there and then. Of course, it was all the hope of a man with everything to lose, yet so much to gain. He couldn't bear to lose anything else and he promised himself he wouldn't. That next time he came face to face with Jim Moriarty, he would kill him in whatever way he needed to. And maybe he'd even enjoy it a bit. No matter how twisted it sounded, he knew he would probably enjoy killing James Moriarty.

He found that he never had the chance. Sherlock fell and Moriarty shot himself. Even in a world full of impossibilities, full of amazing people who could do amazing things, full of abilities that saved people and let them live happy lives. All John could do was kill. He could never save Sherlock. And that's why Sherlock died. Though John still had a secret he hadn't yet shared. He hoped that Sherlock would come back, if only to discover his last secret. His ultimate secret. It would answer so many questions the man had asked. _Why do you wear those gloves, John? I've never seen your classification, John. Was I wrong to assume that you are normal? _

How wrong Sherlock truly was to assume that.

But of course, the detective returned. Years later, but he did. It was a brilliant stroke of luck that he had chosen to arrive at a time when John sincerely did not feel like punching out someone. In fact, when arriving at the door of 221B, Sherlock discovered that John had not moved out. Besides that, John was happy. The smile he had on when he answered the door vanished like water in the desert when John discovered who was at the door. The man could barely restrain his impulse to both hug and throttle Sherlock. It was too much of a risk, John's brain decided in the end, and all he could do was dumbly invite Sherlock inside.

Soon enough, though, they were back to solving cases.

/

Benjamin Moore was a criminal nothing short of genius. Whatever edge the man had on them was not something they were understanding. He was steps ahead, no, miles ahead and it was driving Sherlock (and John, in turn) crazy. What should have been an easy case was crazy as hell and confusing to boot. No wonder to police had called Sherlock in for this case.

The murders of three men and two women had added to the body count in recent weeks. Currently, Moore had thirteen deaths on his head. That they knew of.

The problem was timing. They never seemed to get to the scene at the right time. Always late, always coming across a body minutes after Moore left. It was an absolute nightmare. They just couldn't get ahead of him. And Sherlock was also a nightmare because of this.

"What is it that I am not getting?" Sherlock could be heard muttering from his seat, arms tucked together under his bathrobe and feet dancing up and down nervously against the rug. "So obvious. I'll feel like such an idiot when I notice it."

John couldn't help but sigh from his chair. It had been a long day and after struggling to get some food into Sherlock (with less protest than John had ever had before his, erm… fall), the two had taken up residence in the living room of 221B, where the curtains were drawn and the room was dark, save for the lamp at John's elbow. Sherlock was poised in his own chair, eyebrows knit in concentration as he struggled to unravel the mysteries of their case.

"You aren't getting anywhere like that," John said. "You haven't even read over the files." He gestured to the inch-thick pile on the coffee table, papers that Sherlock had abandon without a second thought. It was thanks to John that they were still intact.

"No use, John. I don't need them," was Sherlock's unwilling reply. John let loose another sigh ("Oh, do stop being so dramatic, John.") and focused back on his laptop. Scanning news articles and online sources, just in case something about the killer presented itself. No such luck.

"Honestly, you've been at this for two weeks," John began again. "Nothing's happened. Why don't we just call it a night and watch some horrible television show before turning in?"

"Funny. You seem to be forgetting people are dying," Sherlock replied. It wasn't that he cared much about the deaths. But Sherlock knew John's weak points. However, Sherlock was also one of John's weak points and watching the man spiral as he had been doing over the course of this case was starting to wear on him.

"And there's nothing much we can do about that if you insist on not doing the things that help you live," John paused for a moment. "Like eating.

"I'm not much interested in eating," Sherlock drawled dryly.

"I've seen."

And it was silent again.

"Are you sure this bloke hasn't got any abilities?" John asked. "You haven't even read the file."

Again with the file. Sherlock shot the shorter man a cursory glare before focusing his eyes blankly on the carpet again. "Lestrade would have said something."

"You didn't give him much of a chance to before you ran off. Without the file," John told the man. And it was true. What little they had seen of Lestrade wasn't exactly enough for them to find anything out.

Sherlock ignored him completely this time. John took it upon himself to pointedly pick up the thick folder and browse the contents sagely. Whether Sherlock was paying attention or not was a wonder at the very back of his mind as he came across the page with the man's medical record. Of course, as a doctor, he was curious. His gloved hands flipped pages and his eyes gathered in what he read.

"Sherlock," he said. His tone of seriousness gave Sherlock pause and the man glanced up to see the look of concern etched into his friend's features. "I think you really should look at this."

"All right, all right. I sometimes wonder which of us is more stubborn," the detective muttered, a hand outstretched to take the file.

Instantly, Sherlock understood exactly what John meant. His eyes rapidly skimmed the page then darted up to meet John's steady gaze.

"He's an alternate," Sherlock determined. John nodded. "Who went through a little over a year of therapy and drugging during his time in the trial runs."

"Exactly. It takes longer to get rid of abilities," John agreed. "So it's possible he isn't actually an alternate."

"Or maybe he's a partial alternate," Sherlock mused aloud. "That would explain why the tests didn't register." He was talking about the various tests they perform on those with abilities every five or so years. Sherlock still had to go to them, despite much protest. Surprisingly, Mycroft wouldn't let his younger brother out of them, no matter what the man said.

"Partial alternate?" John asked. "I didn't know there were any in England. Not since the trials were cut." That had been more than ten years ago. Every alternate in those trials had died within six years of the first trial. In fact, it was possible Sherlock was the only sub left in England. Maybe even Europe.

Partial alternates were not altogether unheard of. A few people who had been in the trials had stopped halfway through, which resulted in many things. In 30% of cases, the result was death. In 20%, the result was a halfway between state that cut all control from the person with an ability. Most of those had been killed, though some had ended up in correction facilities. In 50% of cases, the subject experienced an unreliability with their ability, though they had complete control otherwise. These were specifics few knew. John knew because he was interested. Sherlock probably knew because he himself was an alternate.

"I have no doubt about it," Sherlock announced. "Now, all there is to do is find a mute and figure out his pattern." By mute, Sherlock meant a person with the ability to block other people's abilities. There were few of this type, though if there were any that they could team up with, the police force would no doubt help supply one.

"Pattern?" John asked. "What do you mean, pattern?"

"I mean the pattern in which his abilities return. It's easy enough to track," Sherlock replied with an unusual amount of patience, though John thought he saw an eye roll as he once again looked down at the file. "It takes a certain amount of time for him to recharge, I suppose you'd say. His pattern is a mess, though. The killings are at random intervals."

"Are they within a few days of each other?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. That might have been confusion on his face.

"Can you tell me how far apart each murder was?" John continued.

"The first two of this recent spree were seven days apart. The next interval was five days. Then six. Five, again," Sherlock recited easily. "You must have found something. You look very focused."

"Time travel," John declared simply.

Benjamin Moore had the ability to time travel. He could only manage up to three days, no farther in either direction, but it would still work to throw them off.

Sherlock took a moment to soak that in. "Brilliant," he decided. "Now we know the next date and the next victim."

"We do?" John asked as the dark haired man sprung to his feet and scooped up his cell phone. "Wait, how do we know this?"

"Simple. He's targeting researchers who've been interested in restarting the trials," Sherlock said. "Didn't you notice they all work in the same building?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't be so confused if I had," John replied a bit irritably.

Sherlock smirked as he pressed send. "It's quite simple. They all have evidence on them that originates from the same place."

"And you asked me why I didn't notice," John grumbles and sets aside the file to rub his eyes.

"You read the file," Sherlock offered in what John felt was a very condescending way. Then again, he had been acting a bit nicer since his return. Hence the fact that he no longer looked like a living skeleton.

"S who's the next victim, then?" John asked to divert the subject. He felt a bit weird hearing something like that from Sherlock.

"Most likely, it's Samuel Wells, a close colleague of the last victim," Sherlock told him. "It should be occurring tomorrow."

"Just our luck to run into a time traveler," John decided tiredly. "I think I'm off to bed, then."

Sherlock accepted this silently and watched his friend leave. John didn't see the way his eyes followed the doctor as he left to brush his teeth and do other things for his bed time routine.

Sherlock was a curious man, as well as the most observant. Some things raised his attention. And certain things about John were doing just that.

/

The next day, they were caught in a crossfire. Sherlock seemed to be on his way to becoming the next victim. Lestrade, who had ended up there due only to Sherlock's insistence (which was a shock to both John and Lestrade). It wasn't revealed until later why Sherlock wanted Lestrade there. In the meantime, John went with it and Lestrade was glad to be in the loop.

They were at the next victim's house when it happened.

Sherlock had picked the lock (illegal, as Lestrade reminded them before following the pair inside). Unfortunately enough, they were too late to save the target. Fortunately, the killer was still there. And unfortunately, he still had a mostly-loaded gun.

"Who the hell are you?" Moore demanded. He didn't leave much of an impression on John. He was of average height, average build, and average looks. The only thing different about him was the silver shine of his eyes against pale skin. They were ever so similar to Sherlock's eyes, though not exactly the same. Had it something to do with being a partial alternate?

"The police," Sherlock replied evenly, "And you been caught red-handed. Now, are you going to surrender or-"

And Moore shot. The gun rang clearly, leaving John's ears ringing with the sounds of war. It was a sound he couldn't forget; the sound of a bullet breaking ribs.

Sherlock stumbled without so much as a cry, though he didn't fall.

"I suspected… as much," he replied. And down he went.

Moore flashed away in a haze of heat, the energy it took to travel snapping the air around him and sending out a heat wave. John felt his on heart freeze when Sherlock fell. The pain of watching his friend die again was something he had never want repeated, yet here they were.

And John couldn't have done anything.

John stumbled to Sherlock's side. He lay bleeding on the living room floor. It was a nice floor and a nice living room, save for the blood seeping into the rug below and the body of Samuel Wells sprawled across the couch.

"Sherlock," John struggled to get out. He saw an unsteady rising and falling of the other man's chest and felt a wave of relief wash over him.

"John," Sherlock gasped. It must've hurt. John knew it hurt. It hurt like hell to get shot. But all he could do, for all his medical experience, was clutch Sherlock's hand and lean in closer to hear his friend speak.

"It isn't over. You'll be fine, Sherlock. You'll be fine," John murmured desperately as Lestrade could be heard feet away, calling for backup, for a medic, for anything that could keep Sherlock alive. John knew it was a lost cause. Sherlock would bleed out before anyone could make. And he wished, oh God how he wished, that he had hands that could heal instead of kill.

"Of course I will. Don't be silly." But his voice was a pained rasp. Blood seeped through his thick coat and John could feel the patch of blood spreading below his knees. His jeans soaked up red, becoming wet at an alarmingly fast rate. "It's why we brought a mute."

And John felt his heart stall. Glancing at Lestrade, he whispered to Sherlock urgently. "You didn't. I don't believe it."

Sherlock's smile was tight yet genuine. "Oh, believe it, John. Everything will be perfectly fine."

John's breath came out shakily and his eyes were watering. His hands clutched Sherlock's through the thin fabric of his gloves. "I could kiss you. You mad genius. You bloody mad genius."

And the last thing Sherlock Holmes did was plant the fiercest kiss he could possibly muster on John, who accepted it as all strength ran from Sherlock's fingers and his hand became limp.

Sherlock Holmes was once again dead. Though this time, it was for real.

/

***Seven minutes ago***

Benjamin Moore appeared exactly three inches to the left of where he had been second before. The problem was, he was also still there. As two of him could not logically exist in the same space at the same time, the him from the past was forced the automatically join with the him from the future. Another problem with this was that John Watson was not too far from him. While this John Watson, the John Watson that had yet to grip Sherlock's hand as he lay dying, did not know the plan Sherlock had been building overnight, he did know that the sharp flash of light and the momentary seeing double meant something was wrong.

"I see it worked," Sherlock determined. Moore looked confused.

"What?" the man asked.

"It's really quite simple. You are the Benjamin Moore from thirteen –no, twelve – minutes in the future. It seems the mute we brought worked," Sherlock's smug smirk was enough to piss anyone off, let alone an unstable, damaged killer.

"Mute?" John asked.

"Lestrade," Sherlock gestured sharply at the D.I. with his head.

"How did-"

Lestrade was cut off when Moore broke in.

"I'll kill you again, then!" the man shouted, whirling the gun around to once again face Sherlock. This time, though, those three simple inches had gotten him close enough to John for the man to yank off his glove and quickly slam his finger against Moor's outstretched and shaking arm. Before any shots were fired, Moore shook violently and dropped like a stone, his heart stopping instantly. The gun crashed to the floor and John couldn't have been more relieved when it didn't go off.

"'Again?'" Sherlock wondered. "So I suppose I died before. In the future that never was." Of course, this is what came out instead of what he was really thinking.

_What did John do?_

_He killed a man._

_How did he kill a man?_

_He touched him._

_He took off his gloves._

_ John Watson._

_Just what have you been hiding?_

John waited for the inevitable questions. None came.

"You two need to leave now," Lestrade ordered. "I don't much like the fact that I was brought along as a mute, but God knows you've done worse, Sherlock. Now get out. We don't want the police to find you here."

And they did just that.

/

Things were silent in 221B. After narrowly avoiding death (though Sherlock had no idea how narrowly, and John knew even less), it was fairly sober. John was processing what Sherlock had been planning and Sherlock was processing what John had done.

"So, who's going first?" John asked. Not even the cup of tea that sat on a coaster on the side table had done much to help him calm down. As far as he could figure, Moore had come from the future. A future where he killed Sherlock. He just wasn't okay with that, though saying it in quite those words took away every bit of meaning they carried.

Sherlock's fingers ran just under his bottom lip as he examined John from his place in his chair. His legs were crossed, limbs neatly folded. "What did you do to Moore?" Sherlock asked. John set his jaw irritably. So Sherlock was going first, then.

"I killed him," John replied.

"That much was obvious. I meant how."

John sighed wearily. "Look, it's not-"

"John."

There was such an odd tone to Sherlock's words that John paused for a moment. There was no expression on the man's face, no matter how long or hard John stared at him. He simply couldn't read his reactions.

"It's… my ability," he concluded lamely. It was a weak start.

"Do go on," Sherlock told him evenly.

"I don't like to talk about it."

"And might that be why you've never mentioned it to me?"

Was Sherlock angry about that? The brief flash in his eyes could be a sign of that, though John truly had no idea. It couldn't be that Sherlock Holmes was scared? Could it?

"It's not something people generally accept. Besides," John cleared his throat. "It's not exactly legal."

"Ah." The fact that Sherlock was letting him explain now was remarkable.

"Yeah."

"What level?"

An uncomfortable fidget. "Fourteen."

Sherlock's eyebrows nudged u[wards in disbelief. "No. Definitely not legal," he agreed. "And the power?"

"Touch of death." It was such a horribly dramatic name. John hated it.

"And the gloves?" Sherlock continued, gaze shifting to John's hands as they nervous twisted together in his lap. His gloves had been placed aside as he didn't intend to touch anyone for the next few minutes.

"Skin to skin contact. One touch and they're dead."

"How long have you been working to hold it back to that range?" Sherlock asked.

John's lips were strangely dry and he quickly wet them, swallowing before he continued. "All my life."

"And the range before?"

"Thirty feet," John answered.

"A thirty foot bubble of death. Absolutely brilliant," Sherlock decided, closing his eyes softly. His fingers gently massaged his temples before he once again opened his eyes.

"How exactly-"

"Did I hide it?" John finished for him. "My parents did. God knows how, but they did."

"You're a level fourteen, John. In recorded history, there have been a handful of those. They are rarer than alternatives," Sherlock explained in a tone of complete, deadly seriousness.

"As I am aware," John replied. "I honestly don't know. I've never asked and they never told."

"How does it work?"

"Once again, I don't know. I can expand it, like a mute expands a shield. But any other person with abilities who gets caught in it dies instantly. Not only that, they transfer their ability over to me. Normal people die from a heart attack. People with abilities die of shock to their system," John explained.

"And what abilities do you have?"

All John could do in response was smile wearily.

"After the war, I lost track," John replied. He spoke of a still not complete war between too many enemy countries to name. It was a world war with more casualties than soldiers. God knew when it would end.

"But you were a doctor."

"I have bad days," John replied. "What about you? Apparently, you died today, but somehow you're still here. What did you plan, Sherlock?"

"It was really quite simple. I invited Lestrade along to act as out mute. Unknowingly, he naturally suppressed Moore's abilities, though since he's only a level five or six, he only shielded a certain percentage of Moore's power. As a result, he was able to jump sevenminutes in the past."

"But I thought he wasted his energy jumping to this time to kill Wells," John pointed out.

"Not at all. In fact, he was perfectly fine. Without Lestrade, he could've managed a full three-day jump. Six days is his recharging time, you see," Sherlock explained.

"And how did you know that?" John demanded. Sherlock's smug smile was his response and it burned him that he wouldn't get to know.

"So, Moore jumped back seven minutes when he tried to escape, right?" John urged.

"Exactly. It seems he killed me, jumped back, and was so surprised, he lowered his guard," Sherlock's scoff went unheard, though John knew it was implied. "Emotions got in that way."

"And what if this didn't work? What if sending him back still ended up killing you?" John asked, somewhat angrily.

"But it was implausible. Moore's reactions are very human, despite his serial killer ways," Sherlock replied. "It was possible that Lestrade's level was simply too low to do that much damage to Moore's jump, but I thought it was a risk we needed to take."

"Sherlock," John snapped, "you died. That isn't a risk you take. Not without talking to me."

"Technically, I died, though it was in a different timeline, one that no longer exists," Sherlock explained.

"But if it doesn't exist, how did Moore get here from that timeline?" John demanded. It was all confusing and he was fairly angry about Sherlock dying as a result of his own stupid plan.

"It ceased to exist as soon as he arrived here," Sherlock explained smoothly. "Quite simple."

"Would you stop saying that?" John retorted. "It isn't simple to the rest of us."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up again in surprise. "Why are you angry?" he asked. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," John spat, hands wringing together harshly. "Doesn't it bother you at all that you _died?_"

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his friend's hands. A rippled spread out from them through the air and Sherlock felt his chest tighten.

"John," he put in before the doctor could say anything, "I think you should calm down."

Normally, being told to calm down is the exact opposite thing you should tell John Watson when he's angry. However, he noticed what was happening before he could reply.

"Sorry," he said shortly. "I didn't mean to lose control."

"It's no issue," Sherlock told him, though his chest was still tight and constricted. It felt like someone was slowly squeezing the life out of him.

"Sherlock," John began after a few moments of strangely awkward silence, "just… don't do something like that again without telling me."

Sherlock blinked. "If that's what you want," he replied.

/

While both knew what they had lost in that alternate timeline, what they had gained was forgotten. The kiss that had happened seconds before Sherlock's passing would now never happen. John would now never face a brilliant post-death realization. In that alternate timeline, the one that had never happened yet was still happening, somewhere out in that grand universe, John was alone without Sherlock. And he had to think through some things.

He loved Sherlock. As a friend, definitely. Perhaps there was some degree of romantic passion, but John (the other John, the one who had truly lost Sherlock) didn't feel it quite as strongly as people tell you. It was a dull ache, throbbing in his chest. That kiss had felt right, pure, beautiful. Admittedly, John couldn't properly imagine being with Sherlock that way, though it was a possibility. However, since the man in question was dead, he would never know.

And perhaps the John that still had his Sherlock would never know, either.

Emotions are funny that way. You can deny something to your last breath; you can ignore the dull want, the possibility, until the day you day, simply because you don't want things to change. Maybe you aren't perfectly happy but it's far better than ruining the relationship you already have. Maybe the John who had his Sherlock understood this. Maybe his recognized the lingering feelings left over from that timeline. Though it's quite possible that he didn't. Of course, you would likely never find out. If you asked him about a kiss with Sherlock, he'd fervently deny it. Maybe because he was ashamed of thinking such things, and maybe because he didn't understand what was going on. If you were to ask Sherlock, it's likely he'd say nothing in response and move on. It wasn't of much interest to him why he's imagined kissing John. Then again, Sherlock was also worse with emotions than John.

No matter whether John and Sherlock ended up realizing exactly what was playing at the back of their minds. They were both happy enough. They had saved each other. And that was beautiful.

The doctor who kills and the genius who gave up what everything society thought made you special. Now, tell me, how is that not beautiful? How is that not strange?

How is that not completely heartbreaking?


End file.
